WARNING: The
unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is
illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced
electronically or in print without written permission, except in the
case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

This is a work of
fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any
resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons,
living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

We must be
conscious of this; one day, the life we have, will be gone.

—Lailah Gifty
Akita

Pearls of Wisdom:
Great Mind

Someone once said,
“The tragedy of life is not death … but what we let die inside of
us while we live.” Hardships sometimes leave us bitter. Change our
perspective. Lead us into the dark. And swallow us.

Resembling more of a
special ops soldier than a trained caregiver, when Rebecca Manning,
RN, walks through the door showing no emotion, the moment leaves an
ugly, begrudging taste in my mouth. Other than a quick agitating
exhale through the nose that’s too large for her small rounded
face, she’s silent, only checking vitals and hurriedly entering
something into her tablet like she can’t get away quickly enough.
Her silence doesn’t sit well with me, so I do what I’ve done each
time she’s walked through the door the last four hours. With an
exaggerated lift of my chest, I exhale with a long breath of fuck
you
and hiss, “It’s too motherfucking cold in here.”

She glares at me,
holding her temperament in check. “I’ll adjust the air, Mr.
Gentry,” she counters in a voice far from feminine.

Another wave of
enraged spite sweeping through me, I lift my good arm, giving the
silver rolling table an angry push. It ends against the wall with a
wrath-intended bang, the dinner tray crashing onto the floor with
unmistakable green Jell-O oozing from underneath an overturned small
white bowl.

Tubes and monitors
are everywhere you look in this horrific place. The smell of sickness
and death fills the air. Robotic doctors and nurses going through the
steps to mend broken people. Prolonging lives for another day, a few
minutes longer. And all I can do is sit here helpless. Hopeless. Not
a fucking thing I can do to change the situation.

I detest this place.

Hate this sick world
we live in.

Self-reproach fists
my gut, my mind drifting to only hours earlier. Driving toward
downtown, the radio blaring Guns N’ Roses. Singing at the top of my
lungs. Not a damn thing on my mind but the good. The evening ahead.
Tomorrow. Next year.

Nothing else to do
as I return to reality, I scan through channels of shit I don’t
care to watch, freezing as I listen to my own name making the local
news.

Life’s good. All
is right with the world. A little after noon, a group of us sit in a
private room at Luigi’s after a brutal workout, the table covered
in platters of various pastas, most not available on the daily menu.

“You don’t get
it, man. I’m fuckastrated.”

I take a long swig
of ice water, choking back a laugh. “Fuckastrated? Don’t think
I’ve heard that one, Spunk.”

“Yeah man, I’m
hurtin’ for a squirtin’.”

The entire table
roars with laughter as Mikael Jokinen, AKA Spunk, vents his sexual
frustrations in his strongest animated Swedish accent. Still speaking
mainly Swede the biggest part of the time, his English isn’t worth
a shit, and he loves irritating the complete fuck out of all of us
who don’t understand half of what he’s saying. Other than the few
foreign criticisms we’ve all become accustomed to hearing, we
usually just nod and agree with whatever comes out of his mouth. All
that aside, the four-year talented veteran loves fucking things up on
the ice. We’re damn fortunate to have him playing for the Hawks.

Spooning a second
helping of wheat rigatoni tossed in a spicy marinara sauce and
Italian sausage onto my plate, my urge to hassle the guy we all like
to refer to as the “Swedish Spunksponge” hangs off the end of my
tongue. As much as I know that once I start in on him this
conversation will be never-ending, I just can’t hold back.

“One day you’ll
learn, Spunk. Women in this part of the country actually prefer men
with their teeth in
instead of on their bedside table. It’s an American thang,”
I say in my spirited Texan accent that I still haven’t acquired
much of, even after years in the States.

Spunk takes all our
criticism in stride. Damn proud to be labeled the team’s biggest
man-whore, he puffs out his chest and smiles, proudly showing off his
lack of two front bottom teeth.

“Knulla dig,
Gentry.” Spunk holds up both middle fingers, rattling off another
Swedish insult that I’m all too familiar with. “Says the kuk
whose motto was once Rub, Ride, and Release.”

“Touché, Spunk,”
I respond with a proud nod. Just like the rest of the team, they all
know who I was before I met Lindy.

Next to me is
Brandon Tackett. My closest friend and trusted confidant on the team
also has his own personal proverb. “Tack
it. Then nail it.”
Another proclaimed lifelong bachelor, Tack moved in with me in my
downtown condo planning on a week or two stay at the most, ending up
my roommate for over a year until I fell into home ownership. One of
the best players in the league, he’s known in the NHL for his
all-world hands and speed. His extraordinary goal-scoring feats will
definitely be missed one day when his retirement comes around. He’s
considered the hothead of the team, so along with my reputation as
the most dangerous forward in the league, we make a good duo on and
off the ice. Cocky as hell, he’s also presently giving me shit
about needing to finish up and get home to my old
lady.

It’s Valentine’s
Day, and I still have a stop to make.

Determined to rub in
the fact that I need to leave early to pick up flowers, in a
five-minute stretch he’s referred to me as everything from a “house
bitch” and “pussy whipped”, to “snatch-hammered” and
“first-rate cunt lapper” in five seconds flat. Tack’s hellbent
on staying single, and the women fucking love this guy. Tall and
lanky, he’s got that perfect hair going on, with just the right
amount of wave that the ladies seem to get off on, and a pair of
unusual, clear brown eyes that you can damn near drown in. And then
there’s his smile that when broadened, includes two deep dimples on
either side of his lips. Females melt when they see the guy. Hell, if
I wasn’t straight, I may go after him myself.

Tack grins, cramming
sourdough in his mouth. “You still have your infamous chictionary,
Gentry? Filed away somewhere safe and sound, just in case that
beautiful woman of yours finally gets sick of your shit and moves on
to a three-legged man like me? Or how about your revolting collection
of thongs and bras? Did Lindy let you keep those?”

Patrik Dubnyk, the
one other married man in our lunch group, and Spunk nearly choke on
their food. “Your buddy here claims your so-called black book, or
chictionary
was full of either married women or chicks hit with the fucking ugly
stick.”

I turn toward Tack
and give him a nice punch in the chest. “Always good to know my
closest friend speaks so highly of me.”

“It’s what good
friends do,” he replies. “Hey, listen to this,” he says, on a
roll to twist the knife even deeper. “First time I ever went over
to Gentry’s condo, I walked through the door expecting a nice cold
beer and some football on the flat screen. Maybe a pizza or a burger.
Instead, I was welcomed with an odor resembling rancid dog breath and
old fucking fish. It wasn’t until I’d lived there for a month
that I finally figured out the reeking stench was the stud-muffin’s
collection of panties.” His tone lowering while a waitress gathers
empty bread baskets, he mumbles,” I learned to appreciate the aroma
of old tuna after a time.”

“You know you’re
full of shit, Tack.”

We all erupt into
more roaring laughter.

“Besides.” I
elbow him in the gut. “What about all the times I heard you in
there baying to the fucking moon?” I look across the table at the
smiling guys. “At first, I thought he was a sleep walker or maybe a
loud snorer. Took me weeks to figure out he wasn’t either. It was
only Romeo rubbing one out.” I grab his shoulder. “So, brother,
at least I could get actual pussy.”

****

Home a little over
an hour later, I’m starting off this day of romance with a bang,
red roses and Godiva truffles in hand. No matter how much I consider
Valentine’s Day another ploy to rake in millions for retailers, my
lady is a romantic at heart. And I’m happy to assist in giving her
a passion-filled night.

After long minutes
of accusing me of buying the chocolates for myself, we settle on the
obvious fact that she’s the real lover of sugary sweets and end up
in bed.

“You ready, baby?”

My mouth lies deep
between her thighs, lapping at her honeyed essence. Other than the
occasional slice of pie or rare piece of chocolate, her sweet juice
is the only luscious craving I can’t seem to get enough of.

She moans, tugging
at my hair. “Oh God. How do you do this to my body?”

“Feel good, baby?
You ready?”

Her big blue eyes
glaze over as I suction her clit between my lips, nipping the edge
with my tooth just the way that takes her to that special edge. My
own moan of satisfaction lifts up my chest as I watch tears form in
the corners of her eyes as she slides into climax.

Lindy and I have a
sex life that belongs in the record books. Our first night together,
we shared an hour-long dinner before spending the next twelve in bed,
leading to a hot, rapid-fire romance that led us to eloping in Vegas
only three months later. All other women became non-existent when I
realized the biggest, brightest set of eyes known to mankind, along
with a head full of wavy, wild dark hair belonged in my life.

When I met Lindy
after damn near brushing her temple with a flying hockey puck,
convincing an ice girl to give her my deepest apologies and, I hoped,
get the dark-haired beauty to share her phone number, the rest was
history.

I never looked at
another woman.

“God, Rhett. It
feels so good.”

“That’s it,
baby. Come around my dick this time, beautiful.”

I hold back my own
throbbing release, always making sure Lindy comes first.

Presently working on
her second climax, I’m taking her hard from behind, the way she
likes it best. When I know she’s ready I drop a hand around her
mid-section and rub her clit, knowing the one small movement will
take my wife right where we both want her to be.

“Rhett!”

She comes hard, my
dick plunging balls deep as I empty inside her, hoping this gives her
the baby she wants.

Seconds later, I
ease out and flip over onto my back. Automatically, she rolls on her
side and tangles her legs between mine like she always does after
sex.

“I love you, baby.
You’re so beautiful, Lindy.”

Her face is damp as
I push the strands of unruly, naturally wavy hair behind her ear and
brush my lips across hers, taking her mouth, which always seems to
have the faint taste of cinnamon and chocolate.

My head tight with
tension, a flashback bites at me, pulling hard at my chest. The
weather cooler than normal for mid-March, the temperature feels like
an oven as I anxiously race through the halls of North Texas Covenant
Center, trying to put form to what’s happening here instead of
fighting the emotional chaos behind my chest. There’s a large
silver tray stacked high with blankets. I grab one for some odd
reason.

I barge through the
door of room 213, smelling her immediately. Lake is beside her
identical twin, her fingers massaging Lindy’s thin wrist. A bottle
of my wife’s favorite gardenia-scented lotion is beside the bed,
one of many personal items I’ve brought since the accident. Just
wanting them to be there for her … just in case. I suddenly wonder
when my in-laws will arrive from Florida.

“Lindy? Baby?”

Her head turns my
direction, and I stop dead in my tracks. Skin white as snow. Eyes
strangely more pale than usual. Her gaze meets mine with warmth and
affection.

Floored, I fight
like hell not to show the emotion pounding in my chest.

“Hi,” she
whispers, her voice hoarse and scratchy.

“Hi yourself,
beautiful.” I brush a hand over her cheek, and she leans into the
small touch.

“Your hair,” she
says in a faint whisper. “It’s long. I like it.”

I lean over and kiss
her forehead, blinking back more emotion.

“Sit down by me,
baby,” she says, my stomach clenching as I pull a chair up close.

“How do you feel?
Can I get you anything? The doctor … has he been in? Do you need
another blanket?” Rambling, I look at a despondent, shot-down
looking Lake. Her lips seal shut as she blinks away tears. I want to
ask her why she’s not happy, but I don’t.

Lindy’s fragile
hand strains to squeeze mine.

“Lake talked to
the doctor,” Lindy whispers. My gaze shoots back to Lindy’s twin,
who bites at her lip and quickly exits the room saying she needs to
make a quick call. Certain what I’ve just seen in her eyes is
something akin to a heavy heart, I’m confused.

What the fuck?

For a few seconds,
neither of us speak. Only look at each other. Hold hands. Smile.
Still so amazed that she’s alert and able to communicate after a
month of silence, I rub my fingertips across her pale, overly-thin
cheek again, squeezing my eyes shut for a second, the same sense of
dread I felt earlier rocketing through my chest, heavier than before.

“Sure you don’t
need anything, angel?” I ask for the second time, her eyes holding
a strange, faraway expression. She turns and looks fixedly at
something on the wall.

“Look, baby,”
she says softly. “Angels. Lake couldn’t see them. Do you see
them, Rhett?” Her gaze is filled with a mixture of both peculiarity
and a peaceful calm. She points, and I turn and look at the photo, my
eyes clouding with unease and dire dread.

“Aren’t they
beautiful?” she whispers.

I bend over and
twist my arm around my head, my throat and chest heavy. I know what
this means. My grandfather saw the angels in his last hours before
giving in to his battle with heart disease. For what could be the
last time, I bring Lindy’s feeble hand to my lips and hold it
there, the sting from tears sneaking down my face. I’m not sure how
to respond to her comment about the angels, so I do all I can to make
her feel at peace.

With a quick spin, I
turn back toward her, her eyes latching on mine. No fear in her gaze,
she simply smiles, and I kiss her hand again. Then she takes mine and
does the same.

“God, I love you,
Lindy.”

She nods with a
faint smile. “I know you do.”

Helplessness pounds
behind my chest as I half choke on a sob. “I’m so sorry … for
everything,” I say softly, hating this so-called God that’s
supposed to be good and filled with love.

“Never have
regrets, baby,” she breathes out. “I love you, Rhett. And always
remember … live life like it’s the last day. Never look back on
the bad.”

As tears drip off my
chin, her eyes start to glaze. They’re still open, but there’s
nothing left and I know it’s over.

“To the moon,
beautiful.”

Was it something
I said?

Something I did?

****

Two hours later,
nearly an hour since she took her last breath, I’m listening to the
doctor explain coma patients awakening for brief periods of time
right before dying, referring to it as “rallying”. These patients
are suddenly able to communicate and sometimes sit up or even eat
something. No medical explanation why the rallies occur, they’re
common. Considered a physiological “recovery” right before death,
the person sometimes knows that their final hours are approaching and
expresses that knowledge in symbolic or metaphorical actions or
language.

Lake insists that
she snapped out of it strictly to say her goodbyes.

I’d never know how
… or why the strange event happened.

My eyes stinging, my
throat flushes with emotion. Tears flow. Soul-crushing, grueling sobs
echo off my chest. My face in my palms, I’m begging anyone,
anywhere, to make this all a huge, ugly nightmare. Return Lindy and
take me instead. I squeeze at my temples, praying to wake up from
this miserable dream to see my wife alive and well. Safe and warm.
Doing what she does so perfectly—living a carefree, happy life.

“I’m so sorry,
baby,” I whisper to myself, wishing like fuck she could hear me.

Lake takes my hand
and squeezes.

“I couldn’t save
her, Lake. It should have been me. It should have fucking
been me.”

“Rhett, there’s
nothing you could have done.”

Bull fucking
shit!
There was plenty I could have done.

I could have
insisted we valet the car … put my foot down and told her I wasn’t
leaving my Mercedes in an abandoned lot … ignored my dinging phone.

My voice breaks, and
I swallow hard. “Fuck, Lake. I couldn’t tell her no. I never
could. Lindy was the better person,” I utter. “The
better fucking person.”

Lake places her head
against my shoulder and we both cry. After long miserable minutes,
the tears finally ease, and my mind starts reeling with what to do
next. Lindy once told me she wanted to be cremated and I’m pretty
positive her family will have something to say about that. Whether
they do or don’t, I’ll respect her wishes.

The hospital room is
empty now. The machines all silent. No more dripping sounds from the
dangling IV. No nothing. Just an empty bed. And the fucking stench of
death.

“Look at me,
Rhett.” Lake’s voice is stern, and I turn toward the carbon copy
of Lindy, clenching my jaw to hold back more tears. She looks exactly
the same. Hair. Porcelain skin. Bright blue eyes.

“Whether or not
you want to believe it, this is not your fault. You gave my sister a
beautiful life. She was loved. One hundred percent happy. She would
never want you feeling responsible. She’d want you to go on with
your life and live it to the very fullest.”

Hours later, Lake
and I both leave for home. With an empty hole behind my chest, I feel
more alone than ever. I wouldn’t wish this on anyone. Not even my
worst enemy.

Chapter Three

Rhett

It’s never
really goodbye. Only “see you later”.

Hours of chaos, time
quickly turns into days. Notifying close friends and family.

Arrangements for the
cremation.

Preparations of an
obituary.

The final minutes
when everything comes to an end.

Whispering goodbye
to a casket full of ashes.

Tears and more
tears, one minute I think I’m fine. The next, my body is shaking
with grief.

Ten days have
passed. Lake and Lindy’s parents have returned to Florida, mine to
Canada. My closest friends have stopped coming by, the ringing of the
doorbell now silent. Even Reese has eased up. After days of
heart-wrenching mayhem, the house is eerily quiet as I sit on the
edge of the couch staring at four walls that seem so empty.

So damn silent.

Forced to make
another heart-stabbing decision, I stuck with my initial plan and had
Lindy cremated after being pleaded with to reconsider. Not happy with
my decision, her parents finally agreed to go along with it as long
as we still had her remains buried in a cemetery. Pretty confident
I’ll never see any of them again, I nonetheless obliged by burying
her ashes, happy to end on good terms.

Not religious, my
mind swirls with the whole aspect of faith more than ever now.
Heaven, in my mind, is really only an assumption. Simply a bunch of
words taken from a book that has no real authentication. I’ve tried
reaching comfort through the preacher’s promises that Lindy is in a
better place. Soaring
with the angels with no pain, no worries, and no regret.
Saying that more than once, as much as I want to believe, until I
have real proof, nothing will convince me.

There’s still no
lead on the case and probably won’t be. Because
I can’t fucking remember. And it was dark. Nobody else saw or heard
anything. We were in a deserted damn parking lot.

The only thing
recovered were the remains of my stripped Mercedes, discovered a week
after the robbery in an old junkyard, wiped clean. Besides that, the
detectives have nothing to go on. Browsing dozens of mugshot photos
more than once, I haven’t recognized any of the faces. Nothing but
a fucking blank, I barely remember anything about either of them. Way
too much time is passing. Both perpetrators should be well into
preparing for lifelong journeys of living as someone’s bitch in
heat behind nicely rusted prison bars.

Why the fuck
can’t I remember?

Dead air takes over
and settles throughout the house. Counting the minutes, I wait for
the sound of anything at all. Still there’s nothing but silence,
other than a bird chirping somewhere in the distance. The occasional
rare sound of the air popping on. The faint sound of the pool
running. A dog barking somewhere outside. I’m stuck in memories for
too long, and the silence is almost worse than my gloom. It’s
getting to me, and I barely feel human. For the fourth or fifth time,
I watch the glass doors leading out onto the patio where the cat
Lindy named Polar continues pacing, almost as if he knows something
is different. Finally, I stand up and do something I swore I never
would.

I open the door and
let the damn cat in.

No time wasted, as I
sit back down, he instantly jumps up on the couch, climbing onto my
lap and staring at me with those slanted blue eyes. Brushing up
against my gut like everything is right, when it’s nothing but bad
and misguided.

“You wanna stay in
the house tonight, buddy?”

How many countless
times did Lindy ask to bring the cat in? Rain, cold, sleet … I
always refused.

My hand rubs the
cat’s head. “Tonight, you stay inside.”

I hesitate and
inhale a long much-needed lung full of oxygen, squeezing my eyes
shut. I miss Lindy. My past life. Cookouts by the pool. The dreaded
window shopping that she loved so much. Deep conversations about the
future. My gut twists and turns like a knife jabbing in my abdomen.
My throat fills with a huge lump, and I try swallowing, a lone tear
forming in the corner of my eye.

“I’m so sorry,
Lindy. For not being able to save you. Please forgive me.”

Heartache rises up
my chest. My eyes fill with another bout of emotion as more sobs
fall, my body suddenly shaking with grief and remorse as I drop my
head between my palms. Gulping back tears, I lift my head, turning to
see if Reese has returned. For a quick second, it felt like someone
touched my shoulder. My body shudders at the eerie sensation, while I
almost swear that I smell the faint scent of flower-infused lotion
that I know is only in my head.

Sonofabitch!
Motherfucking hell! Am I losing my complete shit?

I ease an arm over
my face and close my eyes. So tired. So. Fucking. Tired.

****

My arm still over my
face, my eyes blink open. Was I sleeping? Am I still? Maybe this is
all another dream. I don’t know what anything is anymore. Nothing
makes sense. Lindy’s words still play in my mind. Words she didn’t
speak before she died. Or any other time. Live
your life. You have so much to give. No guilt, Rhett. Follow your
heart. Remember the gold.

Remember the gold?
Fuck! What the hell does it mean? She never said that! Or any of the
other shit racing behind my head. I tug at my hair and take another
glimpse around the room to be sure all this hasn’t been a nightmare
and Lindy’s still here. Off in the kitchen. Outside with the cat.
Creating some kind of flower or plant concoction.

Pansies grow
through snow, babe.

What the fuck is it
with gold? That image spirals through my brain. What.
The. Fuck?

Empty memories hit
me hard, and I look straight up and silently curse whatever’s above
me. My chest is tight. It aches so badly that I want to scream and
never stop.

So far, I’m
managing as well as I’m able. I’m still breathing. Still have
beer in the refrigerator. Vicodin in the cabinet. Still no interest
in anything. Today’s proving to be a little rougher than usual.
More upsetting dreams that make no sense and long months without
sleep start fucking with a man after a while. All the Vicodin and
beer in the damn country won’t get this shit out of my head.
Nothing will … until I remember.

Lindy wanted this
house. Said she loved the big yard and couldn’t wait to plant so
many flowers that neighbors all the way down the block would smell
the scent drifting through the air.

Flowers just send
out a happy message.

Goddamn fucking
flowers. I detest them. Want every last one pulled up by the root.

I’d been perfectly
content with my condo. No yard to worry about. All the conveniences
without the upkeep or cost. And I sure the fuck didn’t care about
smelling roses and magnolia blossoms.

But she loved it.

And I love her with
every cell of my body.

Gloom simmering in
the pit of my stomach, it bites my throat with burning acid. I shove
the hair away from my face and toss the top of a beer into the
trashcan behind me. Time unfolding, it’s somewhere around
mid-morning, or later. I don’t know the exact time. Don’t really
give a flying fuck.

Like the majority of
my days, I’m stretched out in a turquoise-blue patio chair, my body
stiff, my head buzzing from the two painkillers I swallowed minutes
ago to ease my mind that’s miles deep in a hell-filled pit. With a
long chug of my second Guinness Extra Stout, I lean over the
cushioned chaise lounge and spit into the pot of blooming, blue
hydrangeas beside me. Despite daily doses of beer, piss, and spit,
the plant continues to reproduce as quick as a pen full of cottontail
rabbits.

How did I end up
like this? Living in a huge-ass house, a yard full of flowers and all
kinds of blooming shit that means nothing? I never wanted the hassle
of home ownership.

But she did.

I can’t wait to
fill a house with beautiful babies.

So here I sit.

Miserable.

Running from
nightmares.

Dreading my next
breath.

I choose the
outdoors because I can no longer stand the alternative. It’s
nothing but Lindy. Every single item picked by her, there isn’t one
thing that doesn’t make me want to plow my fist through the wall.
The house even smells like the nauseating grapefruit-scented candles
she demanded burning, saying they’d been proven to soothe the soul.
Proven
by fucking who?

I’d rather be
strapped to a burning inferno being charred by an eternal flame than
smell that scent any longer. Rather be eaten alive by wild boar than
feel this way another minute.

I’m fucking
pissed.

No drive of any kind
left in my body.

With a quick toss, I
send the empty Guinness bottle sailing into the trash receptacle
beside the built-in grill to join all the others. Another amenity I’d
never given any thought to owning.

But she wanted the
outdoor kitchen.

Think about it,
Rhett. Parties when we have kids. Hotdogs on the grill.

The need to go in
the house and take a piss is growing by the minute. Fuck it. Instead,
I lower my sweats down just enough to remove my limp dick, and piss
into the hydrangea plant. Repulsion stretches through my insides, my
gut tangled in knots. The last months. The next year.

How can I do this …
without her?

At some point I’ll
have no choice but to get my shit together. Lindy would never forgive
me for pissing in one of her beloved plants or leaving a mess on the
patio. The trash will have to be emptied unless I want rodents the
size of baby hippos and the stench that comes along with rotting
trash. Then again, who the fuck really cares anymore?

My gut screaming, it
begs for nutrition. Something besides Vicodin and beer—my diet of
choice the last six months.

Don’t do this,
Rhett… Please, baby…

There it is again.
That sound in my head. That voice that won’t let up.

She’s inside me.
Underneath my skin. Demanding I get up and get over this. Move on and
pull my head out of my ass. Life isn’t always simple. We all have
issues. It’s part of it. That’s exactly the way she thinks.

Fuck, I wouldn’t
want her seeing me this way.

With a shake of my
head, I open another beer, polishing off half in one swallow.

Chapter Five

Kass

“You sure this
isn’t another set up, Darci? I mean, last time…”

“No. I swear.”

A giggle creeps up
my throat, getting me an exaggerated shoulder shrug. Last time Darci
insisted on setting me up I ended up on the ultimate date from hell,
sitting in a nice restaurant in Ft. Worth with a guy crying in his
beer over a recent break-up. Story of my life where blind dates are
concerned. Darci’s previous attempt hadn’t ended well, so I’m
not exactly trusting when it comes to her choice of men.

Ten minutes pass and
I don’t know how she’s done it, but my aunt is ninety seconds
from successfully convincing me this isn’t another attempt at
finding my future husband, but simply some quick, easy cash. An
hour-long house call to give her new customer’s brother a haircut
and shave her exact words. After my initial no
freaking way conversation,
I’m still unconvinced I want to do something this unorthodox, but
I’m nevertheless considering it. God knows if anyone can persuade
me to do something so outrageous, it’s Darci. The two of us are
thick as thieves, and she knows I’d gladly walk through fire for
her, and vice versa.

“I may need a
stiff drink before I can pull this off, Darci. This dude could be a
psycho serial killer for all I know.”